After The Fall
by Galactic Cannibal
Summary: Sherlock has come back to 221B Baker Street, the survival of the once considered great detective no longer remaining a secret. So it should have come to no surprize to John and Sherlock when they recieved a text from beyond the grave...Moriarty.


Sherlock slept fitfully last night, his conscience pricking him. It had taken him an age to come to rest, lying in the dead center of the bed, taking great care not to make any noise least he wake Watson upstairs. He was dreading the morrow; Johns inevitable tongue lashing about a stunt that happened three years ago for Victoria's sake! Then the questions concerning Sherlock's eyes, heavy with dark bags from another long night consumed with dream's of Moriarty...

He could not pin down what was so troubling, the man was dead. Did Sherlock regret that their encounter ended that way? If not then why did his mind refuse to quick bringing the image of his death up every night?

Sherlock walked around his floor of their shared flat in silence for a while, watching the clock tick, his dark robe billowing around his pacing legs. He had stopped concerning himself with waking Watson now and set about to unraveling the perplexing enigma that his mind had created. He couldn't think though, for there was a very distracting buzzing from the coffee table. He sighed in exasperation, stalking over to his cell phone and sliding the touch screen lock.

**Hello there, Sherlock. Welcome back. -JM**

"Moriarty.." He breathed. Mind instantly reeling with possible scenarios in which he could have come out of his suicide attempt alive.

Upstairs, John Watson stirred from his slumber, the rattling from the lower level of his flat having pulled him from a dreamless slumber. For a shake of a moment, John believed himself to be back at war, as he did often when woken abruptly, and quickly made a move to exit his bed, reaching for a nonexistant firearm. However, as soon as his hands grasped at only air, he was pulled from his fearful imaginings, and sent that hand to brush his sleep crusted eyes. "Sherlock." He mumbled to himself. His mind did not take long to come to the realization that the noise was most likely being made by his socially oblivious friend. Knowing sleep was now no longer a viable option, John untangled himself from the sea of sheets, leaving his warm fortress behind, and headed down to find what Sherlock was up to now."Sherlock, what are you-" he began, before hearing the whisper. One word. Moriarty. But he was dead... Wasn't he?

Sherlock looked startled at his words, letting John see something like fear flicker in his expression momentarily, but he answered readily enough. "I have recieved a text from JM...Jim Moriarty. The paper ran the article of my return from the grave this morning, it is entirely possible that someone managed to locate my number through any number of channels and is playing a trick. Not amusing." Even though Sherlock's voice sounded sure, his gaze didn't lift from the small glowing screen to meet his friends.

John did see the fear, and that unnerved him. He hadn't known Sherlock to be afraid of anything, not even during that phone call that had occurred right before one of the worst experiences of his life. "Moriarty?" He repeated, taking a step into the room. "It has to be a joke, doesn't it? I mean... Moriarty shot himself, didn't he?" He had a feeling of dread deep in the pit of his stomach, though. If Sherlock wasn't dead... Wasn't it possible that Moriarty could have survived? It wasn't always definite that someone would die of a bullet. There were always ways to survive... Had Moriarty used one of those?

"There is nothing more deceptive than an obvious fact." Sherlock noted, still unable to bring his eyes up to meet Johns. He just kept rereading the simple text over and over as if he could deduce more from it by repeating it. "What you do in this world is a matter of no consequence. The question is what can you make people believe you have done." he mumbled. "I managed to forge my own death, and Moriarty's mind is as close an equal to mine as I have ever seen, we mustn't rule out the fact that he may have survived the ordeal." The mans unrulely brown locks fell to his expressful eyes, tickling the faint smattering of freckles he had recently procured. His face was usually one worn with logic and cold calculation but now it was a flutter in too many emotions to be expressed.

**It's quite rude to ignore someone, Sherlock. Though, you never have been one for social etiquette, I assume. -JM**

Sherlock frowned as his phone resounded with another text. The man was as awful as a petulant child crying for attention. Whether or not this was indeed Moriarty was now irrelevant. Sherlock Holmes would play along for if this was truth, then he would already be of the proper mindset to win the game that was undoubtably being set. **"I see you have come out as unscathed as I after our last communion, I suppose that means the game is afoot." -SH**


End file.
